


Natural as the way we came to be

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Contains minor spoiler for Burnt, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, They're still in that motel room in Minnesota, Unrequited Love, Will Graham Smells Delicious, borrowed dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-30 21:14:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: Hannibal and Will have known each other a while now. When the doctor stops by a certain motel room in Minnesota, there are a lot of things going unsaid.[contains minor spoiler for Burnt, since I borrowed some dialogue.]





	Natural as the way we came to be

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently watched Burnt for the 4th time because sometimes a girl needs her sarcastic food porn and has loaned out her Hannibal blu-rays.
> 
> Anyway, I'm watching a scene and suddenly see it happening between Will and Hannibal. Then this happened.

The scent hits him first. 

It's not even a smell. Thesauruses must be consulted for the appropriate term when it comes to the siren's effect such a thing has on his olfactory sense. Words like aura and aroma, efflux and perfume.

The man before him probably hasn't showered in 24 hours and yet he smells _glorious_. A clean, masculine beacon in the miasma of industrial detergents, stale cigarette smoke despite the sign outside the door, and the faint threads of a thousand weary travelers leaving traces of their lives behind - the reason motel rooms are a crime scene analyst's nightmare. What belongs there and what doesn't, what should be and what shouldn't, what's relevant to what's going on and what's not.

Will Graham doesn't belong in the motel room, but he definitely should be like this more often: soft and a little sleepy, blinky blue eyes and pillow-scruffed hair, a heart-stopping combination of a white t-shirt, boxers and bare feet.

Will Graham's dishabille is not really relevant to what's going on in the larger sense (being in a motel room in Minnesota to examine a crime scene for dear Uncle Jack) and yet... catching him with his guard down and not having him immediately close back up like a disturbed oyster is painfully relevant - both to the man standing backlit by the creeping dawn and what he knows is going on here.

They've known one another a little over a year now and aside from the occasional handshake or backslap, a few comforting strokes to the hair permitted when Will was sick and he brought him soup and tea, and one drunken kiss at New Year that Will doesn't seem to remember, they tend to stick firmly in the box of professional friends.

379 days, 3 hours and 14 minutes ago Hannibal sauntered into Jack Crawford's office for an off-the-books 'consultation.' 11 minutes after that Will Graham stumbled in, and he's been utterly infatuated with the younger man ever since. There are days he wants to hate someone for this fact, immutable as a law of nature, but for the most part he's resigned to his fate.

"Hannibal. Hey. What are you doing here? Where's Crawford?"

"Deposed in court. So the adventure of the day can be entirely ours... in theory." A little smile is playing around the corners of the doctor's mouth, barely suppressing the words he longs to utter.

_Today, tomorrow, all days._

_If you wished it, Will. If you wanted. If you... desired._

_Craved._

_Ached._

"Okay. Well, it's freezing out there. Why don't you come in? We'll... figure it out." Will steps back to let Hannibal by, moving almost far enough that they don't have to brush against each other as he enters. _Almost_. 

They stand talking a few minutes, tacitly avoiding mention of the case that ought to be their focus. Or the rumpled bed that spreads out behind Will. Or the charged atmosphere so heavy it would likely bleed if one merely pricked the air with a paring knife.

Eventually the small talk drains away like a shallow tide, the silence rapidly drying for lack of anything better to do.

"Hannibal... I..." Clearing his throat of some unseen impediment, Will fidgets with his glasses, eyes flashing to all points except the impeccably dressed mirror that stands before him. "I wanted to.... I mean, I've been meaning to talk to you about-"

Sensing the impending tumble over the precipice on which they've been balanced so tenuously for so long, Hannibal forgives himself in advance of his rude and hasty interruption.

"It's quite alright, Will." The quiet that stretches now is more comfortable - in the way a straitjacket is more comfortable than a hair shirt, but moreso nonetheless. "When you said anything was possible... I knew not _everything_ was possible. I am... learning to adapt." 

('Adapt' here having the very loose definition of shaping the world to conform to his whims, but in the interest of fairness, he never said _what_ he was learning to adapt. And the low-hanging fruit of the implication that it was himself is a gross assumption. Swine who make such assumptions only make a sauteed pork butt with blood orange relish and a duxelle & white truffle risotto out of themselves.) 

"Oh." 

Because one day Will Graham will be his. They will cleave unto each other and burn the world down and fuck in the ashes and Hannibal will cook for him, something that takes its time nestled in the flaring embers.

But Will shall only be his if he wants to be, a loving and ravenous desire born freely and **not** some warped empathetic reflection of Hannibal's own yearnings back at himself. To even consider having Will on those terms makes him sick to the soul and he smooths the thought away like a worrisome wrinkle on a tablecloth. 

He'd almost brought breakfast for them. A protein scramble, eggs and homemade sausage, healthy food to put Will back on a good track - and if that track leads to Hannibal, then all the better. The entire drive over he'd glanced at his bare passenger seat between sections of Vivaldi and imagined a thermal storage bag, ceramic containers of food, a thermos of perfectly brewed coffee.

He likes to think he's enough just by himself, but there are still days he wonders.

Thoughts of the meal he didn't bring remind him of the fact he hasn't eaten either and he's about to suggest they go out for something - perhaps one of the 'greasy spoons' Will adores so much and Hannibal is learning to tolerate - when Will shocks him.

"Are... you hungry? If you haven't already... There's a little kitchen setup thing." A thumb jerks over his cotton-clad shoulder before his fingers tangle nervously in the curls at his nape. " I, um. Can I... make you breakfast or something?" 

_Oh._

The atmosphere is thick with unspoken words, wrapping its unexpected weight around them like an anxiety blanket. And after the silk boxers, the high quality linen shirt, the neat patterned wool three-piece, the overcoat, the person suit, and the psychological armour of misdirection... it's just one layer too many. 

Somewhere deep within him, something cracks. Not a complete break but a small hairline fissure in the side of a supposedly impregnable structure, and something warm and viscous and smothering in its darkness starts pouring in and filling up the previously empty space. Blackstrap molasses, cuttlefish ink paste, blood oxidizing in the moonlight... until the question is pushed to the top and allowed to flow over the side, slipping out of his mouth with surprising and unnecessary smoothness. The discovery of still-liquid Tupelo honey alongside organs in an Egyptian tomb. 

It should not be said, or perhaps he shouldn't be the one saying it. But he does, gently of course.

"You mean, may you cook me breakfast instead of falling in love with me?" For all the obscured honesty by which most of their conversations abide, this is the first time he's ever dared put anything so bluntly, shone a spotlight on the stag in the corner. There's vulnerability in such admission. 

The tension stretches a little further, almost too fine to see, shivering in the air between them like a strand of spider silk. Will blinks, eyes dropping to the tiny fists his bare toes are making in the carpet. "Yeah."

Hannibal's hands want to do something incredibly stupid and indulgent like grab Will and pull him into his arms, or hold his face and just feast his eyes on every feature until the burning pit in his soul is full and sated. Tucking them into his pockets seems cowardly, clasping them behind his back too patriarchal, and leaving them to curl tightly at his sides seems incautious as they'd still ache to reach out and touch until his nails split the skin of his palms to stop the tremor of holding himself back. 

Fortunately his mind has given itself the swift kick required to act properly and his mouth begins to function again. "No. Thank you. I already ate." Turning toward the door, his hand is on the knob before Will's eyes find him again, a small sharp sensation from the laser sight focused between his shoulder blades. They straighten almost imperceptibly and with that action Hannibal has gathered back enough of himself to allow his face a quarter turn, letting the light wash over the profile he presents as he catches Will's moue of bewilderment in his peripherals. "But I appreciate the thought." His voice is infused with warmth the way spice infuses a good sauce. Subtle but appropriate. "Goodbye, Will." 

He pulls the door open and steps into the blinding light, leaving a very confused empath in his wake. 

A man in a white t-shirt, boxers and bare feet, who for all that he prefers hiding from the world finds himself desperately wishing his strange friend would come back.... although, knife to his neck he could not have said what he would have done with him if he had. 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the thing. Hope you liked it, and don't hold the fact that I was gonna call it "Burnt Graham crackers" against me.
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated.


End file.
